Hawk's Revenge

by N. M. Catalano

  Hawk’s

  REVENGE

  NADINE CATALANO

  HAWK’S REVENGE, By Nadine Catalano

  Copyright © 2019 N.M. Catalano

  Published by N.M. Catalano

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this work may be copied or reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without the express consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental, except in actual circumstances.

  Purely for entertainment purposes for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  DEDICATION

  This is for my brother, Nick. This world was blessed with you in it, you were a wonderful father, and I hope you are happy.

  I love you.

  ~ N.M./Nadine

  Other Works

  The Stranger Series

  STRANGER, Book 1

  SWITCH, Book 2

  KINK, Book 3

  PERFECT, Book 4

  HIDING, Book 5

  SUSPICIOUS, Book 6, coming soon.

  Black Ink Series

  BLACK INK, Part I

  BLACK INK, Part II

  BLACK INK, Part III

  BLACK INK, The Complete Trilogy, all three parts in one book.

  The Program Series

  THE BEGINNING, The Prequel

  CANVAS, Book 1

  TRIFECTA, Book 1.5

  BREATHE, Book 2

  TORTURED, Book 3

  VENGEANCE, Book 4

  Stand-Alones

  THE ROOSTER CLUB, The Best Cocks in Town

  HAWK’S REVENGE – Program Series Spin-Off

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Books

  Contents

  Play List

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Excerpt From Black Ink

  A Note From Me

  About The Author

  Other Works

  Play List

  Wanted, Dead Or Alive – Bon Jovi

  Fighter – Keith Urban & Carrie Underwood

  Before He Cheats – Carrie Underwood

  Black Horse & The Cherry Tree – KT Tunstall

  Black Velvet – Alannah Myles

  Tequila – Dan & Shay

  Craving You – Thomas Rhett ft. Maren Morris

  That’s My Girl – Dylan Scott

  Tennessee Whiskey– Chris Stapleton

  “There are no dangerous weapons.

  There are only dangerous men.

  - Robert Heinlein

  Hawk

  I have no soul, it died fifteen years ago. I’m a demon. Lethal, dangerous……silent.

  Created in the vilest hells on earth, born from revenge.

  They call me The Reaper.

  I’m a killer, and I do it very well. That’s why I was sent.

  But there was a complication.

  Her.

  Things changed.

  I don’t save people. I kill them.

  I wasn’t sent to save her. But I don’t want to kill her.

  Jo

  I live in hell and the devil rules me.

  He rules everyone.

  He tried to break me, but I survived.

  I exist in a world of deceit and betrayal.

  I thought there was no hope.

  Until him.

  He’s the worst of them all.

  Dark, dangerous, and beautiful.

  And maybe exactly what I need, my salvation,

  Or total destruction.

  He’s not a hero, but you can’t defeat the devil unless you’ve been to hell.

  CHAPTER 1

  Hawk

  The first time I killed someone, I didn’t hesitate. I felt nothing.

  No, that’s not right, I was glad. Granted, that situation was…special. The next time, I waited for the guilt, the sense of remorse, a flickering of my conscience. It didn’t happen. I was detached, emotionless, devoid of any reaction. It’s no wonder I became what I am. Hell, who knows? Maybe I was destined for this, maybe fate had chosen this path for me, if you believe in that load of horse shit. I am designed to do a job, and I do it well. Focus on the mission. Go in, get the job done, move on to the next one. It’s just another day at the office. That’s what I do.

  Maybe I am a heartless son of a bitch, who the fuck knows?

  Some call me The Reaper. Does it bother me? No. There’s a good reason for that.

  At some point, the lines got crossed from business to personal. Somewhere along the way, I took more and more pleasure on my jobs, doling out punishment and bringing down hell. It was all or nothing, black or white. There is no grey area. It’s live or die. A way of life.

  This time my assignment is not sanctioned. I’m here as a favor. This one is personal, and my specialty, they know it, I know it, and we all know how it’s going to end. It’s what they want, that’s why they sent me. However, this job is unique because it requires a special kind of discretion and indifference. I’m very good at what I do. You might call me a mercenary, but whichever way you look at it, I’m a killer. I’ve been doing it for so long, I question whether or not there is still some humanity left within me, if there ever was. Sometimes I wonder if there’s some flaw in my makeup, if there’s something off with me that makes me a heartless bastard. Most of the time, I’m glad to rid the world of the filth I’m sent after. Does this make me a psychopath, or just some kind of freak of nature, a monster? At this point, it doesn’t matter.

  So, here I am. Gulfport, Mississippi, not too long ago a thriving coastal community full of wealthy southerners sipping iced tea on their wrap-around porches with Mercedes and Lexus’ in their three car garages. That was on the shiny, rich surface. Once the glitter dulled and the cracks on the façade cracked wide open, the monsters that used to hide in the dark alleys and inside abandoned buildings took their places in the spotlight. Money is power, and the ones with the most have all of it. If you’ve got enough, you become a king. Kings do whatever the fuck they want, take whatever the hell they please, and do it by any means necessary.

  That is why people like me do what we do.

  I don’t bother to signal when I round the corner at the intersection because there isn’t a soul in sight in this shit hole town.

  Just the way I like it.

  Nine p.m. and it seems they rolled up the streets here a decade ago, just about when everything crashed and the economy tanked, then things only got worse after Hurricane Katrina crushed whatever life was left. This p
lace got sucked down the toilet and is still drowning in feces. I’m getting ready to swim with the filthiest pieces of shit. I’ll be right at home.

  Slowing my pace to a roll on the near empty street, I know I’m coming up to the place. The only businesses left open in this part of town are the liquor store, the convenience mart, a dive motel, and that one.

  Joe’s Place, neighborhood watering hole that’s probably a home away from home for local scumbags and prostitutes. It’s located at the dead end of nowhere right on the water on the Gulf of Mexico, and has the entire area to itself. The ‘e’ in Joe’s no longer lights up in the neon sign on top of the huge, old, run down building, and more than likely hasn’t in a long time.

  “Nice place,” I mumble as I slow my Harley into a parking space out front and turn off the ignition. I straighten, unbuckle my helmet, and look around. For a section of town that appears to be half deserted and boarded up, this place is packed. There are at least twenty motorcycles lined up front and center, along with an equal mixture of pimped out redneck pick-up trucks, luxury vehicles, and almost an entire adjoining vacant lot full of semi-truck cabs. There are a couple of guys near one of the trucks, smoking cigarettes, looking as if they’re waiting for someone. I can hear the music playing inside the bar, Johnny Cash crooning about some shit, but not much else. It looks strangely calm.

  “Interesting.” I push down the kick stand and climb off my bike. As I walk toward the entrance across the dirt parking lot, the solid front door swings open. All I can see is a massive male frame back lit by the interior lights tossing out a smaller man.

  “Boss said he wasn’t putting up with anymore of your crap.” That’s gotta be the big guy.

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me!” And that’s the little one.

  “Save it for someone who gives two shits!” The door slams shut leaving the skinny guy sitting on his ass in the dirt outside alone, a cloud of dust surrounding him.

  I slow my steps as I approach the entrance with my eyes fixed on the dude on the ground.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” he snaps as he pulls himself up and dusts himself off.

  There are two things I notice immediately: first one is, he doesn’t sound drunk. The second is, his clothes are new, not expensive, but not old and cheap.

  I keep walking, my steps slow and steady, with my gaze still on him. Silent. I’m always silent. Silence makes people uncomfortable, they hate it. It tends to make them word vomit all over the place, spewing out all kinds of interesting things.

  “You some new guy here? The boss hire you, huh? You think you’re some tough guy because you’re the new ‘Wonder Boy’?” He cackles some kind of crazy sound. “I got news for you, you won’t last one day around here. And I don’t care what you heard, I didn’t do shit! It wasn’t me!” What a dumb ass. Here’s a little secret: if they vehemently deny it, nine times out of ten, they’re guilty. He’s an arm’s length away from me as I pass him, so close, I barely have to reach out to wrap my hand around his throat to shut him up. Instead, I turn my attention to the entrance. “I’m not afraid of you!” He’s yelling at my back as I pull open the front door to Joe’s Place. Shame, the whiny little shit should know how afraid of me he needs to be. Who knows, maybe he will. I’m here for a reason, fucking with him isn’t it. Once inside, I spy the bouncer standing to the side as the slamming door cuts off the little peckerhead’s rambling.

  I pause just past the threshold and take in the large room. It’s a honky-tonk, biker bar style. The bar’s on the other side and runs the expanse of most of the wall with tables and chairs filling the space in between. There’s a dance floor to the left with a small stage behind it where the DJ is set up, and to the right are booths that line that wall and the front one as well. The place is huge, like it could have been a barn or some industrial building at one time, with a high ceiling. There’s a large back room to the right of the bar where I can see an electric bull and pool tables. There’s practically not an empty seat in the house.

  Real popular place.

  When I step inside, a hand grips my bicep. I have to fight the urge to cut it off. Every one of my muscles tense and I have to take in a slow breath to cool my shit.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the bouncer sneers as his grip tightens.

  I glance down at his hand still on my arm, then up to his face. He looks like a used up punching bag. His nose is crooked and kind of deformed, like it’s been broken a few too many times, and his brow bones are uneven, as if they too had been smashed at some point. That would explain his stupidity, maybe from a brain injury, or he’s just a dumb fuck. The guy’s big all over, and it seems so is his mouth.

  “Inside.” It’s fucking obvious.

  He snickers showing off a broken tooth like it’s some kind of trophy. “Not until I say so.”

  Don’t kill him, Hawk.

  Occasionally I have to remind myself that not every piece of shit is on my elimination list.

  I turn to give the brainless bouncer my full attention. “Sure.” I know how to play nice when necessary.

  His expression morphs to confused. “Yeah,” is all he’s got.

  Typical. He needs me to confront him because that’s what he knows.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I tilt my head toward the bar. “Drink.”

  His eyes shift from me to the bar, then back, that baffled expression still on his face. “Yeah, okay, but no trouble. Or you’ll be out there with him,” he thumbs toward the door.

  That really makes me want to laugh. Dude, I’d snap your neck just for shits and giggles. I nod once.

  “That’s right,” he smiles as if he’s just won an argument, crossing his arms across his chest. Keeping my gaze fixed on his face, I notice the tattoo peeking out of the short sleeve of his t-shirt, the word Enforcer at the bottom, the rest of it covered by the fabric. My mind takes a snapshot of him. His clothes are all black, even the combat style boots and cargo pants. If he was wearing a bullet proof vest underneath and had FBI printed on the back, that would be the uniform. He shrugs his head toward the room. “Go on in.” I give him another nod and make my way toward the bar.

  As I pass through the tables, I peer out over the crowd. There are bikers and business men, women dressed in ‘Fuck Me’ clothes, and more bouncers around the perimeter dressed the same as the one at the door. A couple of things are glaringly obvious: there’s money here, a lot of it, despite the run-down place, and no one is stepping out of line, that in itself is interesting. The good ‘ole boys are playing pool, dancing with women who can probably be rented by the hour, and lots of people sitting at tables having what appears to be pretty serious conversations.

  This is a pit for the dregs of society. They might be dressed differently, some in expensive clothes, others in jeans and boots, but they’re all the same. Predators, blood suckers, killers, liars, thieves, criminals. I can smell it on them, the aroma of filth enveloping them. I know that scent well. I should, I’ve bathed in it, wore it every day for most of my life. If you’re going after the bad guys, you have to become one of them.

  I slide into one of the empty stools at the end of the bar.

  “What’ll it be?” another muscle head asks me from behind the counter.

  Shit ton of security.

  “Jack Daniels, straight.”

  His mouth curves into a smirk. I’m a redneck at heart, and Jack is our drink of choice. He turns his back to me to grab a rock glass off the shelf, then pulls the bottle of booze from amongst the rows and rows of liquors. I take out a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and set it on the scuffed up bar as he places the amber liquid filled glass in front of me. “Passing through?” he asks, not yet taking the money. I lift the glass, tilt it to him making eye contact, and nod. He returns the gesture. “Strange place to sight see,” he comments, still not moving on to the next customer. I shrug a shoulder indifferently and sip from the glass. I can see the growing frustration in his expres
sion from my lack of verbal response, and the fact I couldn’t give a shit about what he thinks. “What brings you to these parts?” he finally asks a question that would require a more specific response, should I choose to give one.

  I set the glass down and look into his face. “Joe.”

  His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “You’re a friend of Joe’s?”

  The female bartender from the other end of the bar steals a look our way, the one with the made for sin body in cut-off shorts and a muscle shirt her tits are perfectly molded in, like big, juicy grapefruits. Her expression tells me she takes no shit from anyone. So does the shot gun on the floor leaning against the wall behind her. Instant brownie points for the bad ass broad behind the bar.

  I give him another shrug. “A friend of a friend.”

  He dips his head back and laughs. “Joe doesn’t have any friends.”

  I pick the glass back up and take another sip. “Neither do I.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, still smirking. “I can’t decide if I don’t like you, or you just might be one of my favorite kind of people.”

  I tilt my glass to him again. That’s a no brainer.

  What I said to him was pretty much the truth. I am here for Joe, in a roundabout way. When this so-called assignment was presented, I was told to find out what was going on at Joe’s Place, that was it. Open ended and very much up to interpretation. The thing is, my interpretations don’t leave a lot of room for discussion.

  Eyeing the customers over the rim of my glass through the mirror behind the security bartender, I’d bet my nuts every one of these motherfuckers are into some serious shit. Why would a backwoods honky-tonk need professional security, A LOT of security? Whatever it is seems to have made every single person in here a ton of money. Whomever is in charge has tight control over the entire operation, right down to the place they play, which tells me that Joe’s involved, whoever he is. From what I’ve seen so far, I don’t think this is the main hub of the operation, but it’s clear the bar plays a significant role somehow, because there’s too much security and a whole lot of people. And money.